Dave and an unsavoury whiff of entitlement

David Cameron (pictured in China yesterday) has appointed 26 advisers to the government payroll

Three years ago I was in Blackpool to watch David Cameron give his much-lauded conference speech. It was a triumph of hope and conviction, delivered without notes which seemed only to ­emphasise its sincerity.

It was ­obvious that he was going to win the next election, and afterwards I sought him out and asked him to sign a conference programme for my daughter.

‘Here you are!’ I said to her proudly, ­producing it with a flourish when I got home.

‘You’ve now got the signature of the next Prime Minister.’

She’s still got his autograph, but I am beginning to lose some of my own hope and conviction. The news that Cameron has appointed a staggering 26 advisers to the government payroll, among them his own personal photographer Andrew ­Parsons (no relation) and film-maker Nicky Woodhouse, was bad enough.

Now we learn that less than two months after his wife took on a special adviser of her own (Isabel Spearman, whose salary of £60,000 for a four-day week is also paid for by you and me), he has given the hugely influential role of global trade envoy to handbag designer Anya Hindmarch — who happens to be a) one of Samantha Cameron’s close friends and b) Spearman’s former boss.

For some time I’ve been giving Cameron the benefit of the doubt, but I’m afraid I can no longer ignore my discomfort at the pampered exclusivity that surrounds his Notting Hill set.

There is the worrying sense that too many decisions affecting all of us are being made around dinner tables in ­stylish West London kitchens, fashionably appointed with reclaimed oak floorboards, opaque glass splashbacks and stainless-steel worktops.

You can just picture the scene. To the strains of James Blunt from the iPod speakers, the Notting Hill set take ­elegant forkfuls of organic chicken with sunblush tomatoes, olives and parmentier potatoes and consider how to make their overworked lives easier.

The trouble with Cameron and his ­cronies is that too many of them are too disconnected from how real people live.

Their idea of cutting back is to shop at Sainsbury’s instead of Waitrose, order fewer clothes for the kids from the Boden catalogue and perhaps forego their skiing holiday, just this once.

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They don’t know how it feels to be in total panic about being able to afford any Christmas presents for their children at all, or to lie awake at night wondering how to pay the electricity bill.

A senior civil servant warned Cameron that making these vanity appointments at a time when so many face redundancy was a serious mistake, yet he went ahead and did it anyway. The question is, why?

We know he’s not stupid — he has a First from Oxford and a former career in public relations, for goodness sake. So the only conclusion to be reached is that his arrogance has outstripped his judgment.

There comes a time in every political leader’s life when they start to believe that they really do know better than anyone else, but Cameron seems in danger of reaching that point uncommonly fast.

He has only to look across the Atlantic to witness the consequences of losing touch with the people. Obama has been given a bloody nose in the mid-term ­elections precisely because Americans feel he has little connection to — or understanding of — the things that ­matter to them.

Most of all, though, what people scent from a mile away is the whiff of entitlement and nepotism. It’s beginning to hang heavy in the November air and Cameron and his coterie would do well to proceed with caution. If they continue to ignore the real world — where even the tiniest Anya Hindmarch bag is beyond most women’s means — that whiff could become an overpowering stench.

Posh and Becks have responded to the latest accusations of his infidelity by revealing that they are soulmates who keep the spark alive in their 11-year marriage by having ‘date nights’.

For the Beckhams, these special occasions turn out to involve watching the utterly inane U.S. reality TV show Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

David insists there is no other woman in his life. If this is his idea of a date night, I can well believe it.

Forget the debate over whether Ann Widdecombe’s complete ­inability to dance means bored viewers will now boot her off Strictly. The person I want to sack is whoever’s in charge of presenter Tess Daly’s wardrobe.

Week after week she has looked gawky and lop-sided in a variety of peculiar one-shouldered even­ing dresses, often accessorised with a garishly mismatched belt.

The good news is that on Sunday night she finally turned up in something different. The bad news is that it was short, puffy and feathered and made her look like an ostrich. Or possibly a llama.

Researchers have found a way to tell whether someone doesn’t like the present you’ve given them. Apparently, the recipient will appear uncomfortable or embarrassed, give a fake smile and will barely be able to bring themselves to touch the offending item.

I can only assume none of those whom the researchers studied has any aptitude for amateur dramatics. My own reaction to a present I loathe is to gush as though it really were the object of my heart’s desire before putting it to very public use as soon as possible.

This has seen me through several difficult ‘in-law moments’ involving dodgy jumpers and necklaces.

A large clay brooch made by my daughter when she was four or five was a particular challenge — but I still wore it for several weeks, until it (mercifully) broke.

The only drawback to such accomplished dissembling is that it makes it far, far harder to show genuine enthusiasm for the presents you truly love. This means that the only option left for me now, when faced with a perfect gift, is to burst into tears — although whether from heartfelt gratitude, astonishment or sheer relief, I’m not entirely sure. . .

I devoted considerable time yesterday to studying a report in the Mail about Asda’s new line of dresses for women with four different ‘bottom shapes’ — tomato, potato, pear and nectarine — before deciding, reluctantly, that I am a potato. Why are all the others described as luscious pieces of fruit? You could say I’m quite chippy about it. . .

I simply don’t understand why people are so outraged that Treyc Cohen was evicted from The X Factor rather than kooky Katie ­Waissel. Treyc was flat and out of tune. Katie may be a drama queen, but she really can sing.

New boy's poor Marks

Marks & Spencer’s new boss, Marc Bolland, says we can look forward to things being more ‘special’ in store. As an example he said they might, for instance, track down the best soy sauce in Japan to go with sushi.

Tell you what, Mr Bolland. We M&S faithful don’t want the best soy sauce in Japan. We just want the basics — be it clothes or food — to be of the best quality for the best price.

Many M&S clothes at the moment are so cheap and tatty you might easily think you’re in Primarks & Spencer. And there’s nothing special about that.

Sweetest revenge

I must say I like the cut of Vicky Pryce’s jib. The estranged wife of Chris Huhne has revealed that when he was appointed a minister earlier this year she gave up her own high-flying job as head of the Government’s economic service in order to avoid a conflict of interest.

Days later he announced he was leaving her for his aide Carina Trimingham, who in turn was leaving the ­lesbian partner she’d ­married in a civil ceremony three years previously.

Ms Pryce now says she hopes to join her soon-to-be-ex-husband as a Liberal Democrat MP, with a view to becoming a Treasury minister. I sympathise entirely with her for wishing to enact this joyful and very public act of revenge.

But the very best revenge of all is to find your own happiness, and be secure within it when the person who harmed you has lost theirs.

As Chris Huhne has a marginal seat, is a minister in a party that is in government only by its coat tails, and has a rather unorthodox mistress, I’d say the chances of him finding unhappiness before too long are really very good indeed.